The Subtle Art of Flirtation
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Endgame". Sometimes banter is flirtation, sometimes flirtation is banter... A little B/G fluff for a cold November day. Complete. T for language etc. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing.

_Oooh, fluffy! ;)_

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**The Subtle Art of Flirtation**

by Joodiff

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From the comfort of the big sofa, Grace is regarding him with the kind of thoughtful serenity that always makes him deeply suspicious. When she apparently decides the long, loaded silence has lasted long enough, she says calmly, "So what you're actually saying is that – in _your_ opinion – men and women can _never_ simply be friends? Sex always gets in the way."

It's been a long day and Boyd is far too tired for this kind of debate. She's running rings round him without really trying and they both know it. Even worse, she's doing it on _his_ territory. Still, he is just too stubborn to easily capitulate and wave the white flag of surrender. They both know that, too. Sprawled in his favourite armchair, long legs stretched out, he considers her for a few seconds before countering, "What I'm _saying_ is that I'm still convinced they're shagging, whatever Lambert says."

"So eloquently put," she says caustically. She raises her eyebrows at him. "Why?"

"Come on, you saw the way they were flirting with each other."

She sniffs disdainfully. "Irrelevant. We flirt. Well, we _used_ to. Then again, you flirt with every available female on principle."

The slight sting in her tone amuses him, but Boyd remains resolutely deadpan as he complains, "Harsh, Grace. Very harsh."

"But true."

She does have something of a point, admittedly. Or, more accurately, she would have done a few years ago, before his life abruptly became so much harder and harsher. Only half in banter, he grumbles, "Hardly."

Grace does not sound impressed. "Huh. Flirting comes as naturally to you as breathing, Boyd."

"Even if that were true – "

"Which it _is_."

" – it's a totally different thing."

"My point _exactly_," Grace says smugly. "Flirtation does not automatically imply a sexual relationship."

Somehow she's still got the upper hand. He scowls. "I never said that it _did_, for fuck's sake."

"Touchy."

From the other side of the room he glares directly at her. "I'm _not_ saying men and women can't just be friends, all right? I'm simply saying I don't believe that _they're_ just friends."

"Why?" she asks again.

"Oh, God. Look, I'm too bloody tired tonight to keep going round and round in circles with you, Grace. You win, okay? I concede."

Complacently, Grace regards him over the rim of her glass. "Can I have that in writing?"

"Piss off," he tells her without ire. He rubs his beard reflectively for a moment. "But _if_ they're shagging, that makes Lambert's alibi altogether more suspect. And what do you mean, 'we used to'?"

"Used to what?"

He gestures impatiently. "Flirt, obviously. Christ, are you doing this on purpose?"

"Just to annoy you, you mean?"

"Manifestly."

Grace appears to think about it before nodding gravely. "I think I probably am, yes."

"Guess what?" he says dryly. "You're succeeding."

"Well, we did," she tells him languidly. "Flirt. And don't bother with injured innocence – you know damn well we did, back in the day."

It's true, of course. Though casting his mind back, Boyd is faintly surprised to recall just how blatant they were about it. At least, in the very early years of their association when everything was new and nothing seemed impossible. But it's in his nature to object, so he does. "That's my professional integrity you're impugning, Doctor. Want another drink?"

She nods absently. "Go on, then."

Getting to his feet and taking her proffered glass, Boyd obliges. It's odd, given the high stress of the job they do and their extremely chequered personal history, but he's come to find the occasional evenings that end up passing like this surprisingly comfortable. Comfortable, and perhaps even comforting. A lot of water has passed under a lot of bridges and perhaps that's the point. Perhaps they've finally reached equability and equilibrium in a relationship that has too often been difficult and volatile.

Handing over the refilled glass, he eschews his armchair to drop down next to her on the sofa. Without thinking, he puts his feet up on the coffee table and stares contemplatively into the amber depths of his own drink for a moment before asking, "I'm assuming it went okay, then…?"

"Hmm? Oh, the hospital. Fine, yes. All test results within normal parameters."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?"

"Mm."

A little amused, a little irritated, he says, "'Mm'? That's it? That's the extent of your commentary?"

"Huh? Oh. Sorry. I wasn't really paying attention."

He feigns annoyance. "Thanks, Grace. It's all right – I know my place."

She smiles at him, expression suddenly inordinately fond. "I was just thinking, we've been through some tough times together over the years, haven't we? You and me?"

Understatement. He allows the most imperceptible of nods. "That's one way of looking at it."

Silence. Then, "Why did we stop?"

Boyd gives her a quizzical, sideways look. "Stop what?"

Grace rolls her eyes in a very typical and long-suffering manner. "_Flirting_, Boyd. Do try to keep up. We used to, and then we didn't."

He frowns. "Yeah, we did."

She shakes her head obstinately. "No, it all just sort of… faded away."

Still indolent, Boyd shifts position slightly to make gazing sedately at her a fraction easier. The soft lighting in the room definitely flatters her, and he has to give himself a quick mental shake before saying, "I suspect that this is one of those 'best let sleeping dogs lie' moments, Grace."

She seems to hesitate a fraction before nodding sagely. "You may be right."

"Sorry, did I hear that correctly?"

"Don't push your luck, Boyd."

"What luck?" he complains, but he isn't in the mood to dwell on his woes, past or present. Why spoil an evening that has improved immeasurably since she unexpectedly arrived on his doorstep with some vague – and probably completely spurious – explanation about being in the general area? He studies his feet for a moment. Sober grey socks. Sober grey life. She's right. Somewhere, somehow, something changed. And not just between them. He thinks he should say something, so he tentatively offers, "We're not in a bad place, though, are we?"

"You and me?"

"Obviously."

"No; things could be a lot worse."

He snorts softly. "Don't go overboard, will you, Grace?"

"You'd absolutely hate it if I did," she points out.

"True."

The silence that creeps into the room is mellow. Faintly meditative. The loudest sound disturbing the calm is the gentle ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Outside, somewhere in the far distance there is the briefest wail of a siren. Grace looks round at him again, asks idly, "What are you thinking about?"

Boyd shrugs slightly. "Not much. Too tired to think."

"You're getting old, Boyd."

He's not going to let her get away with that one, even if he is bone-weary. "_Some_ of us are still in our fifties, Grace."

"_Just_. Make the most of it."

"Too tired for that, too," he admits with a faint and deliberately self-deprecatory grin.

Grace chuckles softly, but instead of voicing the expected barb, she simply pats him gently on the arm with her free hand. It's an affectionate, oddly intimate gesture, and Boyd likes it. He lets his head drop back, stares blankly up at the high ceiling. The clock is still ticking quietly. Otherwise the big, comfortable room is silent.

"Actually, I thoroughly enjoyed it," Grace says, her tone mild, unchallenging. In explanation, she adds, "Why wouldn't I? An attractive younger man shamelessly flirting with me."

Still looking at the ceiling, Boyd smirks. "Attractive?"

"Ah. Your ego's still awake, then."

"All of me's still awake."

"_All_ of you?" she inquires, a distinctly arch note in her voice.

Boyd thinks he might just about be able to summon enough energy to play the old, familiar game. Just for a little while, anyway. "_All_ of me. And you can read into that whatever you want."

"Oh, so you _can_ still flirt, then? When you can be bothered."

He stretches deliberately, flexing his shoulders. "There are a _lot_ of things I can still do when I can be bothered, Grace."

Again, she chuckles quietly. "I'm quite sure there are. You're forgetting something, though."

"I am? What?"

"I've known you for _far_ too long, Boyd. I've developed complete immunity."

Boyd lifts his head from the back of the sofa, looks at her again. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she mimics. "And no, that's _not_ a challenge."

"Sounds distinctly like a challenge to me."

Grace remains unruffled. "And you're forgetting something else – I know you're simply too damn lazy to even try."

Not strictly true, but… Boyd shrugs slightly. "_Mea culpa_."

He relaxes back into his former position, resumes his meaningless study of the ceiling. Sooner or later he's going to have to think about redecorating. Not a particularly appealing thought. He's always been a very practical sort of man, but he doesn't find fiddling around with brushes, rollers and messy paint cans in any way therapeutic. The chances of him painting the entire ceiling without spectacularly losing his temper at least once are very slim indeed. Next to him Grace moves slightly, and he almost flinches when he feels her head come to rest gently on his shoulder. It's not that the sensation is unpleasant – it isn't – it's just unexpected. To say the least. They've never been especially tactile. Too complicated; too many implicit boundaries. It feels… pleasant, though; bizarrely familiar even though it's far from it.

"I suppose I should be thinking about going home," she says lethargically.

"Past your bedtime?" he teases.

Grace does not rise to the gibe, merely agrees, "It is nowadays."

"Coffee?" Boyd offers after a moment, more for form's sake than anything else.

"No, I'm fine; thanks."

So completely ordinary and unremarkable. Except for the way her head is still resting easily on his shoulder. He's not sure what to think about that. Maybe she's just as tired as he is and isn't even really aware of it. Maybe he shouldn't think about it at all; just accept and ignore it. It's meaningless anyway; and even if it did have any meaning he wouldn't have a damned clue how she expected him to interpret it.

"This is nice," she says, sounding drowsy.

Bloody awful word. He settles for a non-committal. "Mm."

"Don't you think so?"

"Grace, there are certain words that simply don't feature in my vocabulary. 'Nice' being one of them."

"But it _is_."

"If you say so."

"Misanthrope," she accuses.

"Sentimentalist."

"Bad-tempered old bugger."

"And damn proud of it."

Grace sits up straight again to regard him. He turns his head enough to meet her gaze. There's a touch of amusement in her vivid blue eyes. "For a man who can be so sweet when he wants to be…"

Boyd winces. Really can't help himself. "_Well_ outside the limits of my vocabulary, thank you."

"'Sweet', you mean?"

"Stop it," he orders with a grimace.

"But it's so much fun."

"Not from where I'm standing."

"You're sitting."

"Pedant."

She laughs gently, shakes her head. "Don't ever change, Boyd."

He removes his feet from the coffee table, sits up and puts his empty glass down in their place. Without looking at her, he finally asks the unspoken question that's hovered in his mind all week. "They genuinely think you're going to be okay now, though? The doctors?"

If the conversation's sudden change of direction surprises her, Grace doesn't show any sign of it. Her voice is calm and steady. "There aren't any guarantees, Boyd, you know that. But I think the phrase they use in cases like this is 'cautiously optimistic'."

He doesn't know how to respond. The whole thing's been a nightmare, one he's tried to face stoically despite the strong inclination to rage childishly at all the things well beyond his power to change. He shrugs, says gruffly, "Good."

He doesn't need to look round at her to know Grace is watching him intently. She says, "Do you remember when you came to see me in the clinic the first time? I looked up, and there you were. You looked like a frightened little boy; a frightened little boy who was so, so determined to be incredibly brave for both of us."

Boyd remembers. Of course he does. And the accuracy of her perception doesn't surprise him at all. But he growls disparagingly anyway.

"It's just another hurdle, Peter," she says gently. "That's all. And we're very good at getting over hurdles, aren't we? Or at crashing straight through them, in your case."

He can count the number of times she's used his first name over the years on the fingers of one hand. It sounds wrong; it sounds right. He nods. "Yes we are."

A long, long pause precedes, "We're going to be friends forever; you know that, don't you? We're well and truly stuck with each other now."

"Oh, please," he says, and he doesn't have to try very hard to achieve the requisite level of disgust in his tone. "Go home, Grace. Before I'm forced to physically throw you out into the street."

"Better call me a cab, then," she tells him, getting slowly to her feet. "I don't think I'm quite up to driving."

Boyd follows her up. "Oh, that's right. Turn up uninvited, hammer my bloody booze then leave your old wreck of a car outside my house all night to scandalise the neighbours, why don't you?"

Grace looks up at him artlessly. "I think they're probably used to the comings and goings of your nocturnal visitors by now, Boyd."

Not something he has any intention of commenting on. Instead, he growls, "This is a very conservative street, Grace, and I'm a _very_ respectable police officer."

"Who on earth told you that?"

Now they are grinning fiercely at each other. This is their game, and they're both very good at it. Years and years of practice.

It's one of those stupid, clumsy things. Grace stretches up to brush a mischievous but affectionate goodnight kiss against his cheek, Boyd instinctively leans down a little to make it easier for her, and somehow in the process their trajectory gets hopelessly screwed up. He really doesn't mean to kiss her, hasn't ever really given the idea much serious thought, even on all the long, lonely nights when he's thought about her far more than he'd ever admit to. Doesn't mean to trace his lips gently over hers; doesn't mean to linger long enough for her to do the same to him. It's all very spontaneous and foolish, not a good idea at all, but somehow the idea of pulling away doesn't seem to make it through the warm, pleasant surprise of just how easy and natural it is to kiss her – and to be kissed by her.

It is Grace who draws back, palms lingering briefly on his chest. Grace whose expression is thoughtful and immeasurably wise. It is Grace who says, "Well, that was…"

The despicable word lights up in big neon letters right across the inside of his skull, taunting him. Boyd detests himself for the irony of it. He can feel his lips quirk into a reluctant half-grin as he offers sardonically, "'Nice'?"

"I was going to say _unexpected_," she tells him, mock-solemn. "But I suppose _nice_ would be equally appropriate."

"Or _inappropriate_, under the circumstances. Either way, it's a thoroughly nauseating word."

There's no apprehension in the way she looks at him. No apprehension, just a mild sort of curiosity. "Just one question… why?"

He groans. "Please don't start all that again, Grace. I told you, I'm too damn tired. And I have no idea. Ghosts of the past? Happy accident? Seemed like a good idea at the time? Take your bloody pick."

"You have _such_ a way with words, Boyd."

Grinning down at her, he says, "So I'm told."

"Maybe we could improve on nice…?" she suggests.

Her boldness startles him a little – and it amuses him a great deal more. Mildly, he inquires, "Are you propositioning me, Grace?"

She looks thoughtful. "I'm not quite sure. It's possible."

It sounds completely inane, but he hears himself ask, "Why?"

"Why not?" Grace replies simply.

Not a question Boyd can find any glib answer to. They are still standing in close proximity; he looks down at her. "I'm pretty certain this isn't how it's supposed to go."

"So how _is_ it supposed to go?"

He raises his eyebrows at her. "Expensive restaurant, good wine; a spot of enjoyable flirtation… that sort of thing."

"We've tried that in the past, Boyd. It didn't achieve anything."

"True," he admits, eying her cagily. He has a feeling he's being backed gently but relentlessly into a corner. One he's not sure he actually wants to escape from, despite his inevitable stubborn inclination to kick against any hint of compulsion. He's fairly sure he knows _what_ is happening, but he's a bit hazier on the _why_.

"Poor Boyd," Grace says, and he's surprised by just how amused and relaxed she sounds. He raises an eyebrow at her and she chuckles softly. "Shall I simplify things for you?"

"You usually do," he tells her dryly. "Whether I actually want you to or not."

"It's really very easy," she says imperturbably. "Call me a cab or take me to bed. It doesn't really matter which, but I think you'll find there really isn't a third option for us. Not after all this time."

Not at all what he was expecting to be told. Despite himself, Boyd starts to laugh. "Oh, subtle, Grace. Incredibly subtle."

She glances briefly heavenwards. "Boyd, you wouldn't recognise subtle if it punched you in the face."

He's far less offended than he pretends to be. He growls, "Right, that's it; I'm calling you a cab."

Grace shrugs nonchalantly. "Fair enough. Your loss."

Even without shoes on, he's significantly taller than she is. It's very easy to contemplatively look down at her. She seems remarkably unfazed by the whole situation. He shakes his head slowly. "You're not supposed to give in that easily."

She remains serene. "I'm not giving in."

"Yes you are," he accuses.

"No I'm not."

Piqued by her apparent indifference, he says, "You're letting me call you a cab."

"When was I ever in a position to _let_ you do anything, Boyd?"

"That's not the point."

She snorts. "You're _so_ contrary."

"And you're not, I suppose?"

"You're bringing it all on yourself."

"What did _I_ do?"

Grace sighs irritably. "Oh, for heaven's sake…"

In hindsight, it's obviously a mistake to grin so incorrigibly at her. Big as he is, the answering shove she gives him is so forceful and so unexpected that Boyd has to take an automatic step back to absorb its impetus. Whereupon the backs of his knees collide forcibly and accurately with the padded arm of the sofa and he finds himself sitting down heavily on it before he can do a thing about it. Now he's the one looking up, and Grace is the one looking down. And he suspects he should feel a lot more at a disadvantage than he does. There's more than a hint of sly triumph in the way she immediately tangles the fingers of both hands into his hair, effectively holding his head immobile. She must know – surely she _must_ know – how easily he could free himself of her grip, determined as it is? He doesn't. Doesn't even try.

"Are you paying attention?" she asks him, her tone conveying a very purposeful sort of patience.

Intrigued by the interesting turn of events, he says gravely, "Yes, Grace."

"Good."

He can't resist asking, "Is this going to be a long, complicated lecture?"

"No," she says simply. And then she's kissing him. He's only amused for the briefest of moments, because the briefest of moments is actually all Boyd has before she expertly steals everything from him but the most primal and irresistible of instincts. Quickly, easily, she sets him on fire, and that – more than anything else that has yet transpired – is what astonishes him. Something in the way she does it instantaneously unlocks something in him; something deeply repressed and only grudgingly half-acknowledged. It's not even a battle or a challenge – it is fierce, but it is utterly congruent. It's everything they have never allowed themselves to be together.

Again, it is Grace who eventually draws back. Boyd instantly recognises something in her that he knows only too well in himself – intensity. Intensity, honesty and sheer bloody-minded courage. She is silent, though. Eerily silent as she gazes steadily down at him. It's unsettling – from her, he is not used to silence. Words are her absolute forte, and it's rare indeed for her to shun them. He clears his throat, offers, "That's your idea of subtle flirtation?"

"Not working for you?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"Good answer."

Gazing up at her, he asks, "So what happens now?"

Grace raises her eyebrows. "Guess."

-oOo-

"Don't," he growls warningly at her. "I mean it, Grace. Do not."

"All I'm saying is – "

Propping himself up on an elbow, Boyd glares down at her. "Christ, what does it take to shut you up?"

There is mischief in her expression. "I thought you worked that out _hours_ ago."

He's still not altogether sure how they've managed to go from a friendly evening drink to spending an enjoyable – if exhausting – night exploring the kind of possibilities that are doubtless best left to stray moments of imagination, but he's always prided himself on being an adaptable sort of man, one who is eminently capable of taking the most unexpected things in his stride, so he's not predisposed to worry about it too much. He's tempted, however, to bury himself defensively back under the covers and remain there until at least noon. The cool morning light sneaking into his bedroom through the narrow gaps in the heavy curtains is far from a welcome sight. But there are other things that need attending to first.

"This is my house, I'm extremely tired and it's Saturday morning," he informs her, deliberately allowing his voice to remain in the lower, gruffer registers. "Would you like me to tell you what that means?"

Grace sighs. "Not particularly, but I suspect you're going to anyway."

"It means that I attempt to sleep, Grace. I attempt sleep the sleep of the just until _either_ some inconsiderate fucker finds a desiccated corpse that CID can't be arsed to deal with _or_ I wake up refreshed, energetic and full of enthusiasm."

"And when was the last time _that_ happened?"

He collapses back onto the soft mattress, rolls over and closes his eyes. "Sometime in the late 'seventies."

"You're very bad-tempered when you've just woken up, aren't you?"

"Not _only_ when I've just woken up."

"That's true. So you don't want to discuss – "

"I'm warning you," he says placidly, not opening his eyes. "Go back to sleep, Grace. Or don't. Get up and have a bloody shower, or go downstairs and make me some breakfast – "

"As _if_."

" – but leave me in peace, for fuck's sake."

"Very,_ very_ bad-tempered."

"Why are you so bloody infuriating? You're the most intolerable, exasperating woman I know."

"You're not exactly Prince Charming yourself, Boyd."

"Go _away_."

"No."

Boyd opens his eyes. The bedroom ceiling needs painting, too. Through the open fanlight the familiar sounds of a big, cosmopolitan city waking up filter quietly into the room. He's so bloody tired he wants to scream, but it's an honest tiredness, one he can live with. He can feel her fingertips lightly tracing mysterious patterns on his stomach, can hear her quiet, steady breathing. It surprises him, how natural it feels, having her there beside him in his bed.

Sometimes he thinks before he speaks, sometimes he doesn't. He'll let her decide which it is this time as he says gruffly, "Christ. Why the hell do I love you?"

The gentle fingertips only pause for a fleeting second before continuing to draw complex designs on his skin. Her reply is simple. "I have no idea."

"No," he says, closing his eyes again. "Nor me."

Any other woman would retaliate, and the retaliation almost certainly wouldn't be pleasant. But Grace isn't any other woman. And he knows it. She laughs softly. "Grumpy old sod."

He doesn't open his eyes. Can't be bothered. "Ah. Flirtation."

"Close enough," she says, her tone mild.

Boyd is starting to drift. It's pleasant. He is warm and comfortable, drowsy. He barely feels Grace settle against him, but the reassuring weight of the possessive arm that curves across his stomach provides the final unconscious incentive to relax completely and allow sleep to take him again. Later, he might fret; he might ponder questions that come with sharp thorns. Or he might not.

Outside, the noise of a very ordinary Saturday morning in a residential street is steadily increasing. But Boyd is oblivious, lost in dreams that tangle gently with reality. He's asleep. But he's smiling slightly.

Grace sees it. Next to him, Grace sees it. And then she smiles, too.

_- the end -_


End file.
